An Unexpected Guest

As dawn was seeping through the windows
I woke from surgery and saw
my right arm hooked to an inverted bottle
my left attached to an automatic dispenser that beeped
each time it dripped morphine.
Then, I heard a voice said, Knock, knock.

The curtains parted as an ancient monk
enveloped in a maroon cloth shuffled in.
People call me Bhante, he said.
I’m one hundred and three, where is your wound?
I pointed with my chin and mumbled,
Somewhere under the linens, I have not seen it myself.

Bhante lifted the sheet and the bloodstained gauze.
Our eyes converged on the gaping nine-inch long incision
that began above the belly button
side-stepping it and continued down.
I looked away as he dropped the dressing
and pressed his heavy forearm across the wound.

I wanted to shout, Wait a minute.
Someone made a mistake. I am not even a Buddhist,
but no sound came out.
The monk stood with his eyes closed as if asleep
as drops from the bottle marked time
like a water clock.

I puckered my lips and sucked in air
I wanted to blow at his face and wake him
when Bhante’s eyes opened.
You will be better, he announced
and staggered out, unsteady
as a prisoner in leg-irons.

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About the author
Vida Chu grew up in Hong Kong, came to America to attend college, and stayed. Her poems have been published by Kelsey Review, US 1 Worksheets, Paterson Review, and other journals. She has two books of poems, “The Fragrant Harbor” and “The Thirteenth Lake,” published by Kelsay Press.